Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  “Corpse?” he supplied with the ironic lift of one eyebrow.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “You wrapped it in a blanket and put it in a carriage that another man drove off. And you t-told Mac that ‘she’ must never be found. We-we have a witness.”

  Diccon stared at her, then said half to himself, “Arthur! The young scamp told me I was a murderer! So that’s why he attacked me!”

  Exultant, Eric howled, “We’ve got him, by George! Take off these shackles, you blasted hypocrite! Looking down your haughty nose and calling me traitor, and all the while knowing you’ve murdered your own mother! Jupiter! It defies belief!”

  Diccon ignored him, and watching Marietta’s drawn face said gently, “My poor girl. Knowing you, and your high moral code, I can guess how hard it was for you to do this. But—I’m afraid it won’t serve.”

  “Oh, yes it will!” cried Eric. “Only let me go, and you’re free. You have my word that Arthur will never speak against you!”

  Diccon gave him a contemptuous glance. “And I am to take your word? I think not. Besides, Arthur will not speak against me.”

  “How do you know that?” Eric eyed him suspiciously. “The child is missing, and…! My God! Etta! He’s got the poor little fellow!”

  “Try not to be so ridiculous,” said Diccon. “The boy is too young to give evidence, Marietta. He cannot testify against me.”

  “Untrue! Untrue!” Eric’s voice rang shrilly. “Don’t listen to him, Etta! He’s killed his mama, what’s to prevent him doing away with a child who can name him the despicable murderer he is? Make him let me go so that we can find my poor little brother! Don’t listen—”

  Marietta waved a hand, silencing his raving “No, Eric. He is deeply fond of Arthur. He’d never hurt him.”

  “But he’s eager to hurt me! Does that count for nothing? Do you mean to let him drag me to public disgrace and dismemberment and execution? It would kill Papa! You know that! Do something!”

  She smiled wearily. “Yes, I’m afraid I must.” She took the pistol from her pocket and levelled it at the man she loved. “I am not an amateur,” she said. “I know how to shoot. You must unlock the handcuffs, Diccon.”

  He looked from the pistol in her delicate hand to her shadowed eyes. How sad she seemed. He said, “Can you reconcile this with your conscience, my dear? It will make you as guilty. You’ll have to leave the country, you know.”

  “Much she cares for this miserable country,” cried Eric. “I will take my darling sister to France and she’ll live like a queen. Now get these accursed manacles off me!”

  The pistol in Marietta’s hand was very steady. “Please do as he says.”

  Diccon nodded, took the key from his pocket, and walked towards Eric. His hand flashed upward. Something glittered briefly and was gone. They heard the faint clink as the key landed far down the dim hall.

  Eric uttered a howl of fury. “You miserable bastard! Shoot him, Etta, and run quickly and find that key before—”

  A roaring onslaught of wind against stone drowned his words. The house shuddered and the steps to the minstrel gallery creaked and shifted ominously. A cloud of dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, and upstairs something fell with a great thump.

  “Hurry!” Eric shouted as the uproar faded. “Do you mean to wait till the troopers come? Or until this horrid old pile slides down the cliff? Shoot him! Shoot!”

  Marietta’s finger tightened around the trigger.

  * * *

  Sitting amidst the rubble Mrs. Cordova coughed and sputtered and was extremely disillusioned. The Mystical Window Through Time had warned her that something wicked was coming—the horrid pastry man and his accomplice, she’d thought—but it had said nothing about tycoons or hurricanes or whatever they were called, or about walls falling in on the heads of innocent ladies. She blinked tearfully, and wiped dust from her face and eyes. Her hair must be thick with the beastly stuff, and her head hurt quite nastily. She explored with caution, and felt a lump that did not like to be touched. One of these horrid chunks of stone must have struck her.

  The thick clouds of dust were settling now, and she saw that a section of the outer wall had collapsed and that she’d actually been quite fortunate, because some of the chunks were really large and she might very easily have been killed. Her right shin seemed to have caught a rap, also. Investigating, she pushed away the slab of stone that had fallen on her leg. Her stocking was torn and the skin was scraped, and she would have a fine bruise. It was most unfair. She was trespassing, of course. She’d crept up those very rickety stairs just in time to avoid being caught by Diccon when he’d ridden in. She had wandered about, through small rooms and large, searching for Arthur, and then had been intrigued by the carving of a harp on the chimney-piece of this great chamber that must at one time have been the music room. The wind had made so much noise that she’d had little fear of being discovered, and it was unkind of this piece of stone to have hurt her poor leg when she had been doing nothing wrong.

  “Nasty thing!” she exclaimed, kicking the slab in annoyance. She didn’t kick very hard, because she had no wish to add a broken toe to her injuries, and she was surprised when the slab shot across the floor. It wasn’t very thick, of course, but even a small piece of stone is usually quite heavy. She sat and considered it. “Hmm,” she said, and getting up went to give the offending slab an exploratory prod. It looked like a piece of stone, but it couldn’t be, because it was—soft! Intrigued, she bent and took it up. It weighed no more than five or six pounds and for some most peculiar reason it had been wrapped up in cloth or sacking. Now, why on earth would anyone want to wrap up a piece of stone? She began to unpeel the wrapping, but the fabric was rotted and thick with dust, and fell apart in her hands. The afternoon was fading fast and the light was dim, but she caught a glimpse of something shiny. Her bright eyes grew round with excitement, and she pulled away the rest of the wrappings paying no heed to the rain blowing in on her, or the shower of dust dislodged by another thunderclap.

  “Oh, my!” she whispered, staring down at what she held in reverent hands. “Oh, my goodness, gracious, me!”

  * * *

  “Dammitall!” Eric Warrington’s frenzied howl cut through the voice of the thunder. “Do not stand there like a statue! It’s his life or mine, girl!”

  Diccon stepped forward. “Put it down, Marietta.”

  She was reminded of the way he had walked straight at the pistol when Blake Coville had threatened him. He was not an easy man to intimidate. She would have to shoot! She thought achingly, ‘Oh, Lord! I love him! I cannot!’ But for the sake of Eric and her family, perhaps she could put a ball in his foot, or his leg, or—

  “No! Don’t shoot!”

  Shocked, she glanced aside.

  Blake Coville’s entrance had been unheard because of the storm. He held a long-barrelled duelling pistol trained on Diccon and he moved quickly to wrest away Marietta’s weapon. “My apologies,” he said. “But I cannot let you kill my so loved kinsman, m’dear.”

  Eric groaned with frustration and lowered his head onto his captive arms.

  For once caught completely off-guard, Diccon kicked himself mentally, and drawled, “You reserve that privilege for yourself, do you?”

  Coville grinned. “To attend your obsequies would not throw me into a decline, dear brother. On the other hand, your friend Smollet would likely make England too hot to hold me, and I’ve no wish to leave this green and pleasant land.”

  “More fool you,” grunted Eric sourly.

  Marietta said, “Blake—help my brother, I beg you.”

  Coville glanced at Eric. “I might. But first I’m here to bargain for myself.” He stepped closer to his step-brother. “I have absolutely no compunction about putting a bullet through your knee, Paisley, and as you know, I’m a crack shot, so abandon any heroic impulses.”

  Diccon sighed. “We’re back to that confounded treasure, are we? I don’t know where it is. Not that I’d tell y
ou if I did. Actually, I don’t believe it ever existed, but—”

  “Yes you do! Blast your eyes, d’you take me for a flat? I know why you’re down here! I saw your sketches. You mean to renovate this hideous old pile. And you’ve not a louis to bless yourself with, so the money’s coming from somewhere!”

  “If I ever—”

  “Be still! I’m not here to discuss, dear brother! I’m here to bargain. I have something you value. I’m willing to make a trade.”

  Diccon’s eyes narrowed. “You can have nothing of the slightest interest to me, unless you refer to my mother’s emeralds, and—”

  “Fool! I got those years ago! I refer to something your so admired lady would give anything to reclaim.”

  Marietta gasped, “Arthur!”

  Incredulous, Diccon said, “You cannot mean you’ve taken the boy? No—not even you would sink so low as to harm a child!”

  “I’ve got him,” confirmed Coville, his eyes glinting with triumph. “He’s safe. For now. But not for long. No! Stay back or I’ll cripple you, Paisley! I have the brat tucked away where he’ll never be heard, never be found, I promise you. And nobody—nobody else on this earth knows where he is. So if I go away, or if anything should happen to me, he’ll starve slowly.”

  “You wouldn’t!” cried Marietta, horrified. “He’s just a little boy!”

  Eric snarled, “Let me free, Paisley, and I’ll tend to this carrion!”

  Watching Coville, Diccon said, “You’ve not the backbone to do something like this unless you’re properly in the suds. What happened, Blake? The ponies? Or the tables?”

  Coville glared at him murderously, then gave a short nervous laugh. “Think you’re damned clever, don’t you! Well, find a way out of this, Major, sir. I’m sunk deep to the cents-percenters. If I can’t make good on my loan, I’m ruined, and you know my doting sire—he’d throw me to the wolves without a second thought. I’ve nothing to lose, and I haven’t much time. Nor has dear little Arthur! So make up your mind, dashing old lordship. The boy—or the treasure!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  “I tell you, I don’t—” Interrupted by the howling wind, Diccon paused, then shouted, “I don’t know!”

  “You do know, damn you!” Blake stuck Marietta’s pistol into his belt and stepped closer. He looked wild and desperate, his hair wind-blown, his face flushed, hatred for his step-brother glaring in his eyes. “I warn you, I mean to have it! But if I leave here empty-handed, your beloved will never see dear little Arthur again, and you’ll be responsible for the deaths of two of the lady’s brothers.” That barb pierced Diccon’s icy self-control, seeing which Coville sniggered, “It would appear that you make a habit of bringing death to your women, my lord.”

  Eyes narrowed and fists clenching, Diccon crouched, and Blake steadied his aim and shouted, “Stay back! If I have to shoot I’ll see to it that you suffer as slow an end as the boy will face!”

  Eric said, “By God, Coville, you’re worse than he is! If anything happens to my brother—”

  “You’ll do—what? Accuse me from the gallows? Hah! Who’d take the word of a convicted traitor? At all events, nothing could be proven against me without the boy, and since he’ll never be found—”

  Lightning flashed glaringly, and the immediate thunderclap was echoed by an ear-splitting creak. More debris showered down.

  Eric howled, “This curst pile is falling to pieces! I’ll be trapped! Get me out, Paisley, or—”

  Coville said, “No one leaves here till I have The Sigh of Saladin in my hands!”

  From the corner of his eye Diccon saw Marietta edging back towards the table. He said with the cool disdain that always infuriated his step-brother, “What a fool you are, Blake. Greedy men have sought that picture for centuries and been unsuccessful. How typical that you would expect me to be able to find it in a few minutes!”

  “I know you found it, you lying rogue! That fortune-telling gypsy told Imre Monteil that she’d seen it, and that it was here at Lanterns! I’ve no time to waste! Tell me, or—” The floor shuddered and he glanced at the ceiling uneasily.

  Marietta had taken up the candle and moved close behind him. He was, as always, immaculately clad, and must have arrived by coach because he wore no overcoat and his clothes were dry. When Marietta applied the flame to the tails of his coat, they caught at once.

  “Believe it’s upstairs, do you?” purred Diccon. “I’ll own it, Blake. You’re—ah, getting warm.”

  Of this, Coville was unpleasantly aware. He could smell something odd, and the light in the room flickered strangely. Warrington gave a shriek of mirth. Looking at him uneasily, Coville sensed that the sudden warmth came from the rear. He glanced down, saw a bright flame, and screamed.

  Diccon leapt forward, and smashed the pistol from his hand.

  Still screaming and beating wildly at his tails, Coville fled into the rain.

  Diccon began, “Well done, Mari—” then was staggered as the floor lurched under him.

  There was a growling rumble, whether of thunder or the gale, Marietta could not tell.

  On the stairs by the minstrel gallery, clutching something under her cloak, Mrs. Cordova called, “Major! I must tell you—Oh, dear! I rather think your house is falling down!”

  “For the love of God, get me out of here!” screamed Warrington.

  With a roar that beat at the eardrums the southwest corner of the room disappeared and the air was suddenly full of wind and tumult.

  Diccon ran through the thick dust and led Mrs. Cordova down the stairs. “Outside, ma’am!” He seized Marietta’s arm. “Hurry! Hurry! Get her out!”

  She said, “But—Eric…”

  “I’ll bring him. Go! Before the whole upper storey comes down!”

  “But you haven’t the key!”

  “Out!”

  He pushed them towards the front door. This end of the old wing was going to crumble to the beach at any second. There was no hope of finding the key in time. He sprinted to the wall, dim-seen through the gloom, whereon hung the ancient weapons. Eric’s screams rang in his ears as he gripped the handle of a war axe and tore it from the iron brackets that held it. Succeeding, he was staggered by the weight, and went weaving back through the dust, praying he could swing the weapon and that it would not fall apart in the process. When he reached the stairs to the minstrel gallery, he panted, “Lean—as far back—as you can!”

  Eric obeyed promptly.

  With all his strength, Diccon swung the axe. The rail splintered but was driven into its neighbour.

  Eric looked up and whispered, “Oh—Lord!”

  A hand came over Diccon’s shoulder and plucked the axe away. He knew of only one man who could lift the heavy weapon with such ease. He whipped around.

  Holding the axe in one hand Ti Chiu gave an odd little bow and said, “Now, two warriors will fight.”

  Eric began to struggle frantically with the railing that still trapped him.

  “You’re mad,” said Diccon unequivocally. “This storm has—” He leapt for his life as the axe came at him in a flying arc.

  “You very good warrior!” cried Ti Chiu, his little eyes lit by a fanatical gleam. “My honour it is shamed because I ran from evil beings in other house. For my ancestors I must win honour back.”

  “One looby after … another…!” groaned Eric, striving.

  Diccon made a lunge for Blake’s fallen pistol. He felt the whisper of air as the axe flailed an inch from his ear. Laughing, Ti Chiu kicked the pistol aside. Diccon continued to the wall and snatched a great two-edged sword from its rack. Even as he turned, Ti Chiu was upon him, the mighty curving blade whistling at his throat. He avoided that attack and leapt away but Ti Chiu swung again. Gripping the heavy sword with both hands Diccon struck out with all his strength. The air rang to the shock of steel on steel. Diccon’s hands were numbed by the impact, and he was staggered, but he had turned the axe aside, and it rammed deep into the beam that served both as end post for th
e stair rail and support for the minstrel gallery. Ti Chiu tore it free and roared something in Chinese, then added, “You worthy foe, Major!” He lifted the axe high, only to pause as the gale thundered against what was left of the south wall. With a deafening creak the minstrel gallery tilted.

  Diccon ran to Eric and kicked the splintered rail free.

  Eric slid his hands down to the break and shouted, “’Ware! ’Ware!”

  Diccon whirled, dragging the sword up.

  Behind him, Eric kicked out hard and Diccon was sent sprawling.

  Ti Chiu grinned and ran forward, the axe swinging up for the blow that would decapitate his opponent and restore his honourable name.

  Eric made a mad dash for safety.

  Agile as a cat, Diccon rolled and sprang up. The deadly axe blade whistled past his shoulder.

  A deep growling roar coincided with a sickening heave beneath their feet. With a keening whine of splintering wood the minstrel gallery sagged, sloping downward.

  From a long acquaintanceship with unquiet ground Ti Chiu grunted, “Earthquake!” dropped his axe and headed for the door.

  Diccon followed. Outside, the power of the gale snatched his breath away. The rain was coming down like a grey wind-whipped curtain. Drenched, Blake Coville sat in a large puddle looking balefully at Marietta, who had evidently retrieved her pistol and held it aimed at his head. Of Ti Chiu there was no sign. Mrs. Cordova was clinging to Eric’s arm, obviously imploring him to help.

  Marietta said, “… tell us where Arthur is, or we’ll have you charged with kidnapping—or perhaps, heaven forfend, murder!”

  “Without proof?” Coville sneered, “Never!”

  “He’s right,” said Diccon, coming up with them. “He won’t tell you, but at least we can make sure that he pays for his crimes.” He hauled Coville up by his collar. “I’ve several scores to settle with you,” he said grimly. “And no time to spare, so I’ll make this a quicker end than you deserve.” Blake struggled frantically to free himself, but with a practised twist Diccon forced his arm up behind him and began to march him towards the cliff edge.